Incubus Dreams

21

I screamed, and Richard's mouth was suddenly on mine. He kissed me, a gentle press of lips. Fear thrilled through me, all the way to my fingertips, as if terror were an electric current. I shoved him away from me.

I waited for the anger to come rushing through me, to ride over the fear and everything else, but it didn't come. In fact the fear blossomed into panic. Panic that freezes your body, numbs your mind, makes you forget everything you've ever learned about how to make your body a weapon, and all that is left is a small screaming voice inside your head that makes you a victim. If you can't think and can't move, then you are a victim. That's why panic will get you killed.

Richard knelt in front of me, only as far away as my arms had moved him. There was nothing gentle in his face now. He looked eager, anticipatory. He was on one knee, the other leg turned so that he shielded himself from my view. The body language was modest; the look on his face was not.

He leaned in toward me and sniffed, drawing the air in deep, so that his chest rose and fell with it. His eyes closed as if he'd smelled the sweetest of flowers, his head thrown back, just a little. When he opened his eyes, they weren't brown, they were amber, dark orange wolf amber. There was a moment where seeing those eyes in the tan of his face was breathtaking, then Damian's fingers dug into my leg. A fresh wave of panic poured through me, tore a scream from my throat, and Damian echoed it. I had a confused image of bodies, hands, being held down, cloth ripping, the weight of a body pinning us to the table and...

A hand wrapped around my wrist and jerked me up and away. Damian's nails ripped through my skin as he tried to hold on. Richard tore me away from Damian's hands, his horror, his memories, and his fear.

The moment Damian couldn't touch me, the panic faded, a little. I could breathe again. The fear was still there, pulsing through me, but it was diminished some. It was like the difference between drowning in the ocean and drowning in a fish pond. Better, less frightening, but just as dead.

I looked back at Damian, and he lay on the floor, his hand outstretched, and even from a distance, I reached back for him. I could feel his need.

Richard pulled on my arm, sharp, sudden. It threw me off balance, and he used that momentary stumble to swing me in against his body, my arm behind my back with his hand still on my wrist. I should have been more interested in the pain, but it was the sensation of being suddenly pressed against his naked body that overwhelmed me. It was not just being pressed against a man's body, even a lovely body, that unnerved me, it was as if my body remembered him. Remembered what it was like to be pressed against this flesh, these arms, and with the skin memory... it was as if the emotional scars tore open and spilled my heart out into my skin. You fight so hard, so long, to cut someone out of your heart, but it's not always your heart that betrays you.

But in among the emotional debris I felt Moroven pull back. We hadn't needed the ardeur to confuse her, all we'd needed was how Richard and I felt about each other. Just as Moroven didn't understand pure lust, she didn't understand love, no matter how broken. I don't know if the emotion frightened her, or if she simply couldn't understand it. She wasn't the only one.

We were touching, and the triumvirate was working just fine. We'd both thrown down our shields to help Jean-Claude raise the ardeur and save us, but shields protect you from so many things. What is love? What does it feel like in its rawest form? Lust, need, desire, and that aching want, as if the center of your body was carved out and hollow, and the only thing that can fill it is the person that you're touching.

I loved Richard. I couldn't hide how I felt, couldn't deny it. I was laid bare in his arms in every way. For a moment, I felt him feel the exact same way, then I felt something else... shame. He was ashamed, not that he loved me, but that part of him was angry that Moroven had fled. He'd wanted to drink my fear while he fucked me. That was the thought that came, not in words, but in confused images. I felt that to him my terror was almost the same as the terror of the deer he'd chased down and killed. Fear, even a little fear, made everything better--food and sex.

He let me go, stepped away so we wouldn't be touching. He clanged his shields tight into place and left me standing alone. I was shaking and couldn't understand why.

Richard's face got that angry look he used to hide what he was thinking. He grabbed his pants and went for the door. "You're as horrified by it as I am," he said, and was gone.

I wanted to say he was wrong, but in a way he was right. I wasn't horrified by the fact that he liked a little fear with his sex, a little rough play, most of the shapeshifters did. I think it had something to do with them being programmed to chase animals and kill them. If they didn't get off on the fear, their human sides might come to the forefront and cripple them for the kill. Or maybe, that wasn't it. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was that Raina and Gabriel had been attracted by latent talent. I don't know, but I wasn't horrified with what Richard had wanted. The fact that he thought of taking me while Moroven's fear rode me hadn't bothered me. It was mild compared to some of the things that my wereleopards liked. Just because I didn't participate didn't mean I was blind.

No, that wasn't the problem. I dropped to my knees and stayed there. I'd felt that he loved me, still, but I'd also felt that his hatred for everything he was, was stronger and more important than his feelings for me. I'd thought he loathed his beast, but it was more than that. He hated what he liked in the bedroom. We'd been lovers for months off and on, and I'd never known that he was a closet sadist. How tight he must have to hold his own leash for me not to have known.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped. Nathaniel was staring at me with those lavender eyes. "Are you okay?"

My eyes felt hot, and my throat tight. God, I didn't want to cry. I shook my head, because I didn't trust what would come out if I opened my mouth. No sobbing, no screaming, no hysterics. I hadn't realized until moments ago that somewhere in the depths of my soul, I'd held out hope. Hope that Richard and I would work out, somehow. I thought I'd moved on--stupid. I hadn't moved on, I'd just hidden it away. I couldn't give myself completely to anyone, because I was still in love with Richard. How fucking stupid was that?

He did love me, but he loved his shame more. He hadn't run because I could accept his beast. He'd run because living with me, he couldn't pretend. He couldn't pretend to be normal. I'd never been much on pretending to be something I wasn't, and lately, I'd gotten even worse at it. Could you pretend to be someone else and truly be happy? I don't think so.

Nathaniel put his arms around me, slowly, as if he were afraid I'd stop him, but I didn't. I needed to be held right then. I needed to be held by someone who wanted me, wanted all of me, the good and the bad, the nice and the scary. Richard had been pressed naked against my body, and even the promise of that hadn't been enough.

Micah appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Lillian is in the kitchen looking at Richard's wound." He looked from Nathaniel to Damian, then to me. "Richard looks shaken, what happened?"

I held out my hand, and he came to me without me having to say a word. I buried my face against his shoulder, and that hot, hot tightness spilled out of my eyes, and my lips. I balled my hands into his shirt and cried.

Nathaniel was at my back rubbing his hands over and over my skin, making soothing noises.

"What happened?" Micah asked again.

It was Damian who answered, and his voice let me know that he was close before his hand patted my shoulder. "Richard hates himself more than he loves anyone else." It was only in that moment that I realized that Damian and Nathaniel had still been connected to me when Richard and I had had our moment. My first thought was, He would hate knowing that they know his big dark secret. My second thought was, Who the fuck cares?

I clung to Micah, with Nathaniel at my back and Damian patting me awkwardly on the shoulder.

Gregory growled in his leopard voice, "What just happened? I thought you and Richard were going to fuck."

Micah saved me the trouble of saying anything. "Get out, Gregory, now before you say something even more stupid."

"I didn't mean..."

"Now!" Micah's voice held that edge of growl to it. Enough that it sparked his beast awake inside him, and I felt it curl inside his body, like brushing up against a cat in the dark. A cat that you've shared a bed with, until the feel of that fur, that small body is like your pillows, or your sheets, just a part of a safe night's sleep. Comfort, companionship, warmth, and the knowledge that there are claws in the dark in case things go wrong. His beast flared mine, and it felt so warm, so comfortable, as those two invisible bodies rubbed against each other. The feel of his neck against my face, his skin wet with my tears, our beasts resting against each other, his arms around me, and I had one of those moments, where I understood that if I let him close enough, his arms could be home.

Nathaniel kissed me, very lightly on the shoulder. "Don't be sad, Anita, please don't be sad." I turned my head enough to see his face. There were tears on his cheeks. I opened one arm so that I could wrap it around his waist and hug them both. I let myself sink in against them, let them hold me, let myself cling to them both. What is love? Sometimes it's just letting yourself be who and what you are, and letting the person you're supposed to love be who and what he is, too. Or maybe, what and who they are.

22

When I finished having hysterics and everyone had rinsed enough blood off them to be presentable, or at least not make my neighbors call the police, I got dressed. Micah had pointed out that we'd probably all be going to bed, so why bother getting dressed, but I needed clothes. Black everything from the skin out, including the shoulder holster, Browning Hi-Power, and hidden under my hair the hilt of a really big knife. It sat in a custom-made sheath along my spine that attached to the shoulder holster, though it could be worn without, but not as comfortably. Micah tried to point out that I probably didn't need that much weaponry to go into my own kitchen. I looked at him, and he stopped. No one else complained.

Have you ever tried to get dressed with three men watching you? I wanted Micah, and it seemed shitty to kick Nathaniel out, and Damian... we were all afraid what might happen if the vampire was separated from me by a room and a door. He and I had had sex, and he'd seen me very naked, and even walked behind me into the bedroom, but I still made him turn and face the wall while I dressed. Maybe the wereanimals were finally affecting my view of nudity. It just seemed, strangely, more intimate to dress in front of someone than to be naked. Or maybe my modesty had just had all the shocks it could handle for one day.

Speaking of which, if I hadn't thought it was cowardly and childish, I'd have hidden in the bedroom until Richard left, but it was cowardly, and it was childish. Damn it. Besides, Nathaniel promised he'd make coffee. I hated eating before ten o'clock, but coffee before ten was a necessity.

Damian had done one thing that made me feel better, he'd asked for a robe. His request made me realize something. None of the vampires I knew did casual nudity. They'd be naked for a good cause, but wouldn't just walk around nude like the shapeshifters did. Funny, I'd never thought about it before.

Nathaniel had fetched Damian's very own robe from the basement and had taken a side trip to put on a pair of jeans himself. He got brownie points for dressing without me having to ask.

Damian's robe looked like something straight out of Victorian England, and maybe it was. It was a dark, rich blue velvet, and heavy, almost more like a coat than a robe. There were worn places at the elbows, and the cuffs and hem were beginning to fray. But the whole robe screamed expensive. Damian wrapped it around himself like it was his favorite teddy bear. Once he belted it in place it covered him from neck to ankle, only his hands peeking out.

"That's not a robe, is it?" I asked.

He shook his head, as he pulled his hair free of the collar, so it spilled like a surprised red splash against all that blue. "It's a dressing gown," he said.

I nodded as if I understood exactly what that meant, then I offered him my hand. Not because I wanted to touch him, though that was there, but because of the lost look in his eyes and the way his hands kept rubbing the thinning velvet, as if touching it made him feel safer. He took my hand and gave me the first smile I'd seen since she-who-made-him had reared her vicious head. The smile was shaky 'round the edges, but it firmed up when he touched my hand.

I'd been afraid that when I touched him again that it would change. That there'd be lust, or love, or something else I couldn't deal with, but that wasn't what came through the touch of his hand. What came through was a sense of safety. Relief that I'd reached out to touch him first. If I touched him first, I couldn't be that angry.

"I'm not mad," I said.

His eyes widened just a little. "You know what I'm thinking?"

"Don't you know what I'm thinking?"

"No."

"Ask him if he knows what you're feeling," Nathaniel said.

"I just asked that."

"No, you didn't."

I thought about it for a second. He was right. "Okay, what am I feeling?"

"Nothing," Damian said, "you are very carefully feeling nothing."

I thought about that, too, and just nodded. He was right. I felt numb, at most relieved that Damian's need for safety overrode other complications, but really, truly, I felt nothing. I felt like one of those shells that washed up on the sand, so pretty, so clean, so white and pink, and so empty. That place inside me where Richard had been meant to fit, to fill, was empty, but not empty like a wound. Empty like that seashell, all slick and wet and waiting. Waiting for someone else to come along and slip inside and make that emptiness into their protection, their shield, their armor, their home.

Even thinking it that clearly, I still felt almost nothing. I realized it was close to that static emptiness where I went when I had to kill, but it wasn't staticky. It was a peaceful emptiness, like gazing out to a horizon of just water and sky. Peace, quiet, but not empty, just waiting. Waiting for what?

Damian squeezed my hand. I smiled at him but knew it didn't reach my eyes. I smiled because he smiled at me, more reflex than emotion. Inside was nothing. It was a little like being in shock. Shock is nature's insulation, the thing that shuts you down so you can heal, or sometimes so you can die without hurting, or being afraid.

Well, I wasn't going to die. You didn't die of a broken heart, it just felt like you were going to. I knew from personal experience that if you just kept moving, acting as if you weren't bleeding inside, you didn't die, and eventually you stopped wanting to.

Micah came to stand in front of me. Once it had seemed odd to have such serious intelligence out of kitty-cat eyes. Now, they were just Micah's eyes. He touched my face, and his hand was so warm that I wanted to rub my cheek against it, but I didn't. I don't know why, but I didn't. I just stood there with Micah touching my face and Damian clinging to my hand. I could feel that my face was as empty as I felt inside.

"You don't have to go in there," Micah said.

"Yes," I said, "I do."

He put his other hand up, so that he framed my face between his warm, warm hands. "No, Anita, you don't have to."

Damian was rubbing his fingers across my knuckles the way he did when he was worried that I would be angry with someone. I wasn't angry, or maybe he was worried about another emotion all together. Damian could help me be calmer, help me control my temper, and be less ruthless, or less quick to kill, but your servant can only give you what they have to share. Damian could not help me fight fear, or loneliness, or sorrow, because he carried too much of it inside himself. Today, the only real comfort he could offer was the touch of a friendly hand. But there are worse things to offer.

I closed my eyes, not to hide from Micah's serious face, but to bask in the warmth of his hands. I had to close my eyes so I could feel his hands and not be distracted by the color of his eyes. I let myself do what I'd wanted to do since he touched my face. I rubbed my cheek against first one of his hands, then the other. His hands moved with me, so that it was like a dance, his hands against my face, my hair, and me rubbing against him cat-like.

He kissed me somewhere in all that movement, with my face writhing between his hands. His lips were soft and full, and he pressed them against mine, firm but gentle. I opened my eyes to his face so close I couldn't focus on his eyes.

He drew back enough so we could see each other, but kept my face between his hands. "I would spare you this, if you'd let me."

I put my hands over both of his, so that we held each other. "You mean make my apologies for me, and Damian and I go hide out in the bedroom?"

Someone had propped the front door back into place. The door hung crooked in the frame, and a little light leaked around the edges, but it wasn't bad. Damian had grabbed at my shoulder at the first line of light that crawled across the floor. I'd patted his hand, but didn't know what else to do. Micah informed us that he'd shut the drapes in the kitchen, so it was as dim as he could make it. I'd smiled at him for that. He always seemed to anticipate my wants. Sometimes it bugged me, but not today. Today, I'd take all the help I could get.

Damian would have been the perfect excuse to hang out in a darker part of the house. Unfortunately, almost as much as I didn't want to see Richard, I didn't want to be alone with Damian. Men can be sort of funny after you've had sex with them, some get downright possessive, others get emotional, and still others just want a chance to do it again. None of that sounded like something I wanted to deal with right that minute. Sure he felt calm against my skin, but that didn't mean that once we were alone he'd be able to stop himself from being male. After all he was one. I just wasn't willing to risk it.

"If you have to look at it that way, yes."

"It's not that I have to look at it that way, Micah, it's the way it is. It would be hiding out."

"She won't hide," Nathaniel said, voice soft and full of sorrow that I couldn't understand, and just the sound in his voice made me glad at that moment that we weren't touching. Whatever he was feeling didn't sound fun in the least.

"Isn't discretion ever the better part of valor with you?" Micah asked, and there was a look in his eyes that was close to pain. But strangely, of all the men in my life, he was one of the few whose mind and emotions I couldn't read. I could read his face, his eyes, his body, but his mind and internal emotions were his own.

"No," I said, "never. Well, almost never." I patted his hands and stepped back just enough so that he had to let me go, or hold on when he knew I didn't want him to.

He let his hands fall away from me, and the first hint of anger trickled into his eyes. "I don't like seeing you hurt."

"I don't like seeing me hurt either," I said.

That almost made him smile. "Trying to make jokes, I guess that's a good sign."

"Trying, only trying? I thought it was funny."

"No," Nathaniel said, "no, it wasn't." He squeezed my arm as he walked by. "I'll get the coffee started."

"You're not going to wait for us?" I asked.

He turned back just short of the kitchen doorway. He was smiling. "I know you'll get in here, eventually, because you couldn't stand yourself if you chickened out. But, by the time you talk yourself into it, I could already have coffee made."

I frowned at him, and just a tiny thread of anger came with it.

Damian grabbed for my hand again, and I didn't fight it.

"Don't get mad at me," Nathaniel said, "I'm about to grind fresh coffee beans for you and use the new French press Jean-Claude got you."

I frowned harder.

"I know how much you hate to admit that you like the French press, but you do like it."

"It doesn't make enough coffee at one time," I said. Even to me it sounded churlish.

"I'll tell Jean-Claude that you would like a really, really big French press." He said it completely deadpan, and only the faintest of smiles and the tiniest gleam in his eyes let me know he was going to add something. "Size queen," then he was through the door, before I could close my mouth and decide whether to yell at him, or laugh.

23

Nathaniel's attempt to make me laugh accomplished one thing; it made me feel better, though I have to admit the smell of freshly ground coffee helped lure me through the door. I couldn't let one ex-fianc¨¦ stand between me and my coffee, could I? Not and keep my self-respect, so in we went.

Richard was sitting at the kitchen table on the side nearest the door. Dr. Lillian was standing over him finishing the bandaging of his entire right shoulder and arm. She glanced at us as we came through the door, but most of her attention stayed on her patient. The first time I'd met her she'd been gray and furry, but now she was a woman of about fifty, slender, with hair as gray and white as her fur was when she was in rat form. There was always something neat about Dr. Lillian, as if her clothes never got too dirty and she always had medical supplies when she needed them. She never seemed to panic. In the human world, she was head of one of the few local emergency trauma centers that had survived the cutbacks. But she spent more and more time helping the semi-permanently furry. Since Marcus had died, we were really short on doctors.

Which explained why there was a bodyguard leaning on the other side of the doorway watching us move into the room. He was slender, a little shy of six feet, though something about the way he stood made him seem shorter. A tangle of black hair fell into his eyes, and they glittered like black jewels from that fall of hair. His graceful hands caressed the edges of his leather jacket, and I caught glimpses of at least four knife hilts before he let the jacket fall closed. There might have been six hilts, but I was sure of four, and that was plenty.

I'd been told the wererats were here, plural, but I hadn't thought about it. Hadn't really heard it. I'd been so busy not seeing Richard, that I hadn't really looked at the room. I'd strapped on a knife and my gun, but I might as well have been unarmed for all the good they would have done me, if Fredo had meant me harm. I hadn't seen him. He'd been standing just inside the door, opposite the side I came through, and I hadn't seen him. Shit.

I managed to keep it off my face. I nodded to Fredo; he nodded back. I wanted to say something, but I didn't trust my voice. I was thinking, Stupid, stupid. And that kind of stupid could get me killed.

Nathaniel was at the back of the kitchen by the sink, under the window that we'd once had to replace because of shotgun damage. The window was fine now, but I wasn't. I lived in a world where I had to see the bad guys. Fredo was on our side, but he was definitely a bad guy. Not a bad guy that would kill me, but one that could, and I'd walked into the room right past him. It was a rookie mistake that let me know just how badly I was doing.

I kept walking until I stood beside Nathaniel with our backs to the room. Damian trailed me like a lost puppy that had found a likely handout. I'd let go of his hand when I realized I hadn't seen Fredo, when I'd felt the movement of Fredo behind me. I wanted my hands free. I knew that Damian needed to touch me, but I needed my hands free. I was feeling claustrophobic. The kitchen's a good-sized room. When the curtains are open it's bright and shiny, but with the curtains shut and the overhead lights on, it was dim and shadowy, and I wanted light. I wanted to step out on the deck and watch the trees with the morning light on them. I didn't want to stand here in the dark and hold the vampire's hand. I wanted a choice, and I didn't seem to have any. I was suddenly so angry, and it wasn't Damian I was mad at.

The far drapes moved, and Clair came back in from the deck, all smiles. "It's a wonderful view."

"Thanks," I said, and went back to watching Nathaniel make coffee. If I just kept not looking anywhere else, maybe I wouldn't let my anger get the best of me. I wanted to rant at Richard, to scream and accuse. And I so did not want to do that in front of his new girlfriend or my boyfriends. Did I just say boyfriends?

I put my hands on the coolness of the counter, closed my eyes, and just tried not to think again. Not thinking was good. Not feeling was better.

A hand laid itself over mine, and the moment it did, I was calmer. I knew without opening my eyes who it was, because only one man's touch calmed me. Calmed me because he'd spent centuries perfecting his calmness. I opened my eyes and met Damian's green gaze. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to be furious at being trapped with him, tied, but I couldn't be. With him touching my hand, with his eyes so ready to fill with pain, I couldn't be angry, not with him. Shit.

I couldn't breathe, not a good solid breath. He took my anger, but he couldn't take the fear. I jerked away from him. "I need to be angry right now, Damian, it's all I've got."

A hand touched my arm, and I jerked away from it. Nathaniel's eyes were cautious rather than hurt. "What's wrong?"

I moved back from both of them, bumping up against the island hard enough that the dishes rattled in the cabinets.

"Anita." Micah's voice. He was at the end of the island looking at me with his serious kitty-cat eyes.

I couldn't seem to get a deep enough breath. It was as if the room was getting smaller. Nathaniel was in front of me, and either side of the island was blocked by the other two. I felt cornered, trapped in so many ways.

"Boys," Dr. Lillian said, "I think Anita needs a little air."

"I can't leave Damian alone," I said, but my voice sounded choked.

She came and moved them all away from me, shooing them back. "Come on, a little fresh air and some open spaces, doctor's orders." She held out her hand to me, but was careful not to touch me, as if she knew what I was feeling better than I did. She eased me to the drapes and pushed me through them onto the open deck.

The light was dazzling, and I was blind with it for a moment. When I could see again, she was as far away as the wraparound deck would allow her to be and still be on it. She didn't say anything, just looked out at the view.

I started to say something, then thought, Fuck it, she's right. I went to the rail and looked out at the trees. The trees were a kaleidoscope of color. The wind stirred all that gold and orange, and a cascade of leaves like an upturned bag of gold showered down around me. The sky was that flawless blue that only happens here in October, as if the sky were closer, fresher, newly minted blue, as if all the clear skies until now had been practice for these few weeks of blue, blue sky. I breathed in the heavy gold of the sun, like pale syrup on the leaves. It smelled like autumn, that crisp, clean, sharp smell, that is made up of dying leaves, chill nights, and the warm breath of the day before night falls. You could taste fall on your tongue like some kind of bread or cake, something thick and nutty and sweet. I took in as much air as I could and let it out slow, as if my body didn't want to let it go.

I stood there leaning on the railing, drinking in the sunlight, the colors, and the rich scent of autumn woods. I was smiling and calm all on my own by the time Dr. Lillian spoke. She stayed on her end of the deck, as if she wasn't sure how much room I needed. "Feel better?"

"Yes," and I smiled at her, though I felt a little embarrassed. "Sorry that I lost it in there."

"You've had some big changes in a very short space of time, Anita."

"How much do you know?"

"That you've somehow tied yourself to Damian and Nathaniel, somewhat the way that Jean-Claude tied you and Richard to him. That you did it by accident. That it's a miracle no one's dead."

I sighed, and the smile was gone. "Yeah, I could have handled it better."

"No one could handle all that you handle, Anita, better or worse. You keep surprising all of us."

"Us, who?" I asked.

She smiled. "All of us, the shapeshifters, the vampires, all of us. I can't really speak for everybody, but I know you are a constant amazement to the wererats. We never know what you're going to do next." She leaned against the rail with her arms crossed over her clean white shirt.

"Neither do I, not anymore."

"That loss of control issue again, isn't it?"

"You know, I really don't want to psychoanalyze myself right now."

"Fine," she raised her hands as if to show she was unarmed, "but the next time you start getting claustrophobic, and you need some air, get some air, okay?"

"It was that obvious?" I asked.

"If I say yes, you won't like it, because you hate for anyone to be able to read you. If I say no, I'd be lying, and you hate that, too."

"I'm just impossible to get along with, aren't I?"

"Not impossible, but not exactly easy either." She gave a small laugh to soften it, and said, "Do you feel up to going back inside?"

I took another deep breath and nodded. "Sure."

She nodded, too. "Good, be careful when you move the drapes. Don't want to flash too much of this beautiful sun onto Damian."

I nodded and felt the good air leaving me. Before I stepped back through the sliding glass doors, I was wondering, what was I going to do with him? I couldn't keep touching him all day. Could I? I was willing to do it up to a point, but all day would drive me mad. Especially if it was not just today, but every day. I suddenly saw an endless stream of days with Damian permanently attached to me. It was claustrophobic.

I half expected him to leech onto me when I came through the door, but he didn't. I stood there in the sudden dimness of the curtained kitchen, letting my eyes adjust. My eyes automatically turned to where Richard had been, but I forced myself to look for Fredo first. He'd moved closer like a good bodyguard, leaning against the small two-seater table in the breakfast nook. The white roses that Jean-Claude sent every week framed Fredo's darkness. His fingers were tracing the edges of his jacket again. I'd never seen Fredo use his knives, but something told me that he'd get to his blades faster than I'd get to my gun, not to mention my knife. The back sheath was really an emergency backup, not a main weapon. If I'd wanted a blade as a main weapon, I'd have put on the wrist sheaths.

I eased into the room away from Fredo, not because he meant me harm, but simply on principle. I wasn't at my best, and he was the only professional bad guy in the room, so I treated him with the caution he deserved. Besides, I had to redeem my earlier stupidity somehow, and the days when I would have picked a fight just to reassure myself I was still tough were long ago and far away. Being a girl, that phase had been shorter anyway. We are much more practical creatures than men, as a general rule.

Richard was still at the table. Clair was beside him now. She had a hand on his good shoulder, her small hand very pale against the darkness of his skin. She was watching me. Her eyes were blue, a dark sort of gray blue, but blue nonetheless.

Micah stood at the side of the island closest to the table. He seemed tense, but it was a flicker of his eyes that helped me find Damian and Nathaniel.

The vampire had wedged himself into the corner between the cabinets and the sink. He was holding his knees tight to his chest, his face resting on them, so that he could hide his eyes. He'd managed to hide almost all of himself in the blue velvet dressing gown and the fall of his own hair. Nathaniel was beside him on the floor. He was touching Damian's hands, but that was all.

Nathaniel looked up at me, and there was something in his violet eyes, pain, helplessness, something. I wasn't mad anymore, and I didn't feel claustrophobic as I crossed the kitchen to them. I knelt on the other side of Damian and looked a question at Nathaniel. "I thought my touch might help him until you got back inside."

I nodded. It sounded logical.

"He didn't want me to touch him much." He wasn't hurt when he said it, it was just a fact.

I touched Damian's bowed head. His hand suddenly wrapped around my wrist. The movement had been too fast to see, which didn't happen often to me with vamps, and shouldn't have happened with this one. The speed of it, and the strength in his hand made me gasp.

He raised up and gave me the full look of those emerald eyes. I was suddenly struck by the sheer beauty of him. It was almost a physical force. As if beauty were a hammer and I'd taken a hit directly between the eyes.

"My God," Nathaniel whispered.

It took more effort than was pretty for me to tear my glance away from Damian. Once I saw Nathaniel's face it was easier, and I could breathe again. "Do you see it, too?" I asked.

He nodded. "It's like a really good face-lift, not much change, but the changes are just right."

"What are the two of you talking about?" Damian asked.

His talking made me look at him again, and I was held spellbound. He'd always been handsome, but not like this. "It's vampire powers, somehow. I thought as my servant he'd be less able to do that, not more."

"I don't think it's mind games, Anita," Nathaniel said. He reached out to touch Damian's face.

Damian pulled back. "What? What's wrong with my face?"

"Absolutely nothing," I said, "Richard beat the shit out of you, but there's not a mark left."

He raised his own hand up and touched his mouth. "It's healed," he said.

I nodded, and it was as if I was mesmerized by him. Was it mind tricks, or had more than just the damage healed? I couldn't tell, and I wasn't sure whether Nathaniel was a better judge than I was. "Micah, can you look at him?"

Micah came to stand at the end of the island closest to us. The look on his face was enough, before he said, "Wow."

But was it mind tricks? That's what I wanted to know. I reached up to touch his face, and he didn't lean away from me, as he had Nathaniel. I'd seen part of his memory of what had happened to him at the hands of other men, men that she-who-made-him had given him to, so she could feed off his pain and fear. So I understood some of the homophobia, but Nathaniel wasn't a threat to him, not in that way. In other ways, he was a threat to everyone who saw him. Oh, well.

I touched Damian's cheek, and it was solid. But it was all solid. Nathaniel was right, it was like a really good face-lift; there wasn't that much difference. What was it about his face that was different? What had kept Damian's face from being this heart-stopping before? I'd never made a study of his face, I wasn't sure I knew him well enough to know what had changed. Maybe my confusion showed on my face, because Nathaniel said, "His mouth, his lips were too thin for his face, now they're full and... they match."

Now that Nathaniel had said it, I could remember Damian's mouth, and this wasn't it. Was it just mind glamour? It had to be, didn't it? I closed my eyes and touched his mouth, but I'd never run my fingers over his lips. I didn't remember them. I kept my eyes closed and used my hands to guide me. I kissed him, soft but firm. I'd kissed this mouth less than two hours ago, and it wasn't the same mouth. The lips were fuller, as if he'd gotten a collagen injection while we weren't looking. I drew back just enough to see his face clearly. There was a slight up-tilt to his eyes, and they were bigger, not much, but just a little, or was it that his eyebrows had a wider arch to them? Were his lashes thicker, darker? Shit.

"What's wrong?" Damian asked again, and this time there was a thread of fear in his voice.

"I'll get a mirror," Micah said, and turned and went for one.

"This isn't possible," I said.

"Is there anything I can do?" Dr. Lillian was at the far end of the island. Damian looked up at her, and she said, "Oh, my."

"What?" he asked, and his voice was frantic.

I patted his hand. "You're fine, in fact you're... beautiful."

The fear spread from his voice to his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Micah came back in with a hand mirror. He simply held it out toward me. I took it, but Damian shut his eyes tight, as if he were afraid to look. "It's okay, Damian, I promise, you look wonderful." But I sort of understood the fear, because even if it was an improvement, how weird would it be for the face you've had for a thousand years to suddenly change. I'd have had trouble with changes to the face I'd only had for part of a lifetime.

He was shaking his head over and over again.

"Please, Damian, just look. It's good, not bad. I promise."

He opened his eyes a little at a time, but once he saw enough, his eyes went wide, and he took the mirror from me. He moved it around so he could see his eyes, his mouth, and there was some change to his nose that he could see and I couldn't. Like I said, I hadn't made a study of his face, but he had.

He touched his face tentatively, as if he expected it to feel different than it looked. He dropped the mirror, and Nathaniel caught it before it hit the floor. "What is happening to me?"

I opened my mouth to say, I don't know, but Micah said, "I think we need to call Jean-Claude. We know he's up."

Good idea, I thought. "Yeah, I think so."

I actually got up to go for the phone, but Richard was at the end of the island, across from the phone, and I suddenly didn't want to be that close to the phone. His right arm was taped to his chest, completely immobile, like Lillian had started to mummify him and stopped. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking lower, at Damian.

"Healing and a little facial reconstruction, you are good," he said, and his tone made it not a compliment.

"I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know," and those two words just sounded tired. "Jean-Claude told me once that he couldn't remember what he and Asher looked like before Belle, but he'd seen others before and after. Belle never chose people who weren't pretty, but some afterward were more beautiful than before. It wasn't a common thing even in her bloodline, but it happened often enough to start the legend that it always happened to her blood."

I looked at him. "And when did you and Jean-Claude find time for all this information sharing?"

"When you deserted us for more than half a year. We had a lot of time to talk, and I had a lot of questions."

I couldn't argue with the "deserted us" part, so I ignored it. "I asked him once if his body and face were vampire tricks, and he said no."

"Vampire tricks aren't real," Richard said, "this," and he motioned at Damian with his good arm, "is."

"But Damian's been a vampire for a long time; if this kind of change was going to kick in, then it should have done it by now."

"I'm not of Belle's line," Damian said. He was touching his face with just the tips of his fingers, as if that made it less awful, or something.

"But Anita is," Richard said. "Through her ties to Jean-Claude, she is a part of Belle's line."

"I'm not a vampire," I said.

"You feed like one," he said.

Anger was finally rearing its ugly comforting head. If I could get mad, I'd feel better, and Richard's presence wouldn't bother me so much. "You're as tied to Jean-Claude as I am. It's only luck that's kept the ardeur from you, Richard. Next time we get an extra special treat, maybe it'll be your turn."

"I can't heal with sex, and it looks like you can."

"Did you raise the munin when you were with Damian?" Dr. Lillian asked.

I shook my head. "I'd have noticed Raina being around. She's sort of hard to miss." I heard a distant echo in my head, Raina's "ghost" saying, so glad you noticed. I shut that particular metaphysical door tight, locked it, and bound it with silver chains. All metaphorical, or metaphysical, but all real just the same. A part of Raina lived inside me, and nothing I could do seemed able to rid me of her completely. I could control her to a point, but not exorcise her from me. God knows I'd tried.

"If it wasn't Raina, then one of you was able to heal during the sex," Dr. Lillian said. She said it like it was just logical. Two plus two is four, that kind of thing.

I was shaking my head long before I realized I was doing it. Shaking my head over and over. "I didn't do this."

"Then who did?" Richard asked. His face wore the arrogance of his anger. When he looked like that, he was both more handsome somehow, and less approachable. It was one of the few times I was sure that Richard was aware of just how handsome he was, when he was angry enough to want to strike out and cause someone pain. Why does anger make people pretty? Rage doesn't. Rage makes you ugly, but a little anger, that just seems to add spice. One of nature's cruelties, or maybe it's to keep us from killing each other more often.

"I don't know, but he didn't look like this after the sex. He didn't look like this in the bathroom when Mor... she-who-made-him popped up. He didn't look like this in the hallway," I took a step closer to Richard, "or the bedroom," another step, "or the living room." Another step, and I was as close to him as I could stand and still see his face comfortably. He was almost a foot taller than I was, there were angle issues.

"The closest person connected to Jean-Claude in this room at that moment wasn't me."

He looked down that perfect profile at me. "I didn't go near him."

"Jean-Claude might know the answer to this," Micah said. He was behind me, not too close, but close enough that if I'd done something stupid, I wondered if he'd planned on interfering.

"Micah is right," Dr. Lillian said.

"Yeah, Micah is always right," Richard said, and his voice held emotions the words didn't even hint at. It was the first real sign of jealousy I'd seen. Part of me was happy about it, and the moment that tiny glad spark reared it's ugly head, I knew better. I was ashamed of myself, and I hate that.

"Most of the time he is right," but my voice wasn't angry. We needed answers, not temper tantrums. I made a motion with both hands. "If you'll let me get to the phone."

He moved, but looked puzzled. For a second, I wondered if he'd been picking a fight on purpose, and if he had been, why? Picking fights was more my thing than Richard's. Later. I'd worry about it later.

I had my hand on the phone, when it rang, which scared me. "Shit!" I picked up the receiver and must have sounded at least a little angry, because Jean-Claude said, "What has happened now, ma petite?"

I was so relieved to hear his voice, I forgot to be mad. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice."

"I can hear the relief in your voice, ma petite. Again, I ask, what else has happened?"

"How do you know anything happened?" I asked, and was already willing to be suspicious.

"I felt Damian's master flee from your and Richard's emotions. Only the two of you could turn such a simple thing as lust into something so"--he seemed unable to find a word and finally settled for--"disappointing."

"You're talking to the wrong third of the triumvirate, Jean-Claude. I can put him on, if you want to talk to him."

"Non, non, tell me what is happening."

"Can't you read my mind? Everyone else seems to be able to."

"Ma petite, do we have time for childishness?"

"No," I said sullenly, "but Richard tells me that some vamps in Belle's line turn prettier after a while. Is that true?"

"The change from human to vampire can bring on small changes to the appearance. It is rare even for Belle's line, but oui, it does happen."

"So you really weren't this beautiful once."

"As I told our inquisitive Richard, I do not know. I know that many acted as if I were this beautiful, but I have no paintings of my old face. I have no way to remember after centuries. I honestly do not know for certain. Belle never made much of any of us that changed, because she enjoyed the false rumors that her touch beautified all. If she fussed about those who did become more lovely, then it would tarnish her legend. You have met her, ma petite, she likes her legend."

I shivered. I'd met Belle, secondhand, through a metaphysical possession or two. She was scary, and not just because of how powerful she was. She was scary because of her character flaws, a certain blindness to anything she didn't understand, like love, friendship, commitment as opposed to slavery. She didn't seem to see much difference between the two.

"Yeah, Belle likes her legend so much, she's beginning to believe it."

"As you like, ma petite, but it makes it difficult to find truth in her court."

"Fine, we'll never know if you and Asher were this beautiful before."

"Asher says his hair was not the color of gold before, so that we do know."

I was getting distracted. "Okay, fine, but the point is, when did the beautification take place?"

"You became a vampire, and when you rose the first night you were changed. Due to the vicious nature of some when they experience their first blood lust, it is not always easy to see beauty, but it happens soon after they are brought into their new lives."

I didn't argue the life part, I'd been too confused too long about what was life and what wasn't. "So after a thousand years, you are what you are, right?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. I couldn't even hear him breathing, which didn't mean anything, he didn't always have to breathe. "Has something happened to Damian? Something more?"

"Yes," I said.

"I assume the questions about Belle's line were not idle then."

"Not even close to idle," I said.

"Tell me," he said, voice soft.

I told him.

He was calm, asking questions, getting details, in his so matter-of-fact voice. Over the phone without his body posture to go by, or his face, and with him shielding like a son of a bitch, I couldn't tell if he were truly calm, or not.

Finally, he said, "That is most interesting."

"Don't go all Mr. Spock on me. What do you mean that's interesting?"

"I mean that it is interesting, ma petite. Damian is not of Belle's line, and, thus, it should not have happened. Moreover he is a millennium old, and as you so succinctly put it, he should have been what he was, and there would be no changing it, not at this late date."

"But it happened," I said.

"May I speak with Damian?"

"I guess so." I turned and held the phone out. "Jean-Claude would like to speak to you directly."

Damian got up slowly, as if he were stiff or the floor wasn't quite even. The floor was even, it was everything else that had gotten a little less steady. He took the phone and said, "Yes?" And from that moment on, they stopped speaking English. Surprisingly it wasn't French, it was German. I didn't know either vampire spoke German. If Jean-Claude changed the language because my French was getting better, then he'd outsmarted himself, because I could speak German. Not like speak it, speak it, but I could understand it when I heard it. Grandma Blake had spoken German to me from the cradle up. I'd taken it in high school as my language, because I was lazy and wanted a leg up.

I couldn't catch every word. It had just been too long since I'd used my German, and Damian's accent was different from any I'd ever heard, and I'd grown up around at least two. But I caught enough to know that Jean-Claude was asking him if the changes to his face had happened during sex, or just after, because Damian said something in German about it not happening just after the sex. No, about an hour or so later. I could understand Jean-Claude wanting to save my delicate sensibilities. I did have a tendency to get pissy about sex I didn't choose myself. Then I caught the word for power, and Belle Morte's name. Then Damian saying a lot of, nein, or not that I've seen, in German. He hadn't seen me exhibit any of the powers that Jean-Claude was asking about on his end of the phone. I didn't get it all. One, I was privy to just half the conversation, and two, my grandmother hadn't used some of these words a lot. She and I hadn't had a lot of talks about vampires, sex, and metaphysical powers. Funny that.

When the conversation seemed to be winding down, I told Damian that I wanted to talk to Jean-Claude before he hung up. He handed me the phone not long after, and I got to say, "Hi, ich kann Deutsch sprechen." The silence on the other end of the phone was long. "If you didn't want me to understand you, should have stuck to French."

"Damian does not speak French," he said in a very careful voice.

"Well then you are shit out of luck, aren't you?"

"Ma petite ..."

"Don't ma petite me, just tell me the truth. What other vampire powers can I expect to come on-line?"

"In all honesty, I am not sure."

"Right."

"Truly, ma petite, I am not. Even Belle has never transformed a vampire from another line the age of Damian. If you had asked me, I would have said it was impossible."

That sounded like the truth. "Fine, but what powers were you asking Damian whether I had, or not, and don't lie; if I order him to tell me everything you said, verbatim, he'll do it. He'll have to do it."

"You might be surprised there, ma petite. With your greater commitment to him as your servant, he may not be as much slave to your will. I do not know that this is true, but I know that the more marks you carried of mine, the less pliable to my will you became."

That was true. I'd always been sort of creeped out by the fact that Damian had to do everything I told him, just because I said so, but it had moments of usefulness, and now it might be gone. Well, hell.

"Fine, then just tell me yourself."

"You do not understand, ma petite. That you could gain my abilities is unusual, but this is an ability that I do not possess, have never possessed. What has happened to Damian is something only Belle could have done, and only if he were a new vampire. So is this a new ability altogether, one I have never heard of, and if so, then what could that mean for you, ma petite, for us, and all those connected to you? What if you have gained abilities through your necromancy that we cannot begin to guess at?"

I sighed, and was suddenly tired, not scared, just tired. "You know, I am way tired of this metaphysical shit."

"You also healed wounds with sex, without calling on Raina's munin, is that so horrible?"

"When I didn't do it on purpose, maybe. Think about that, Jean-Claude, I didn't concentrate and do it on purpose. What else might I do accidentally? You don't even know."

It was his turn to sigh. "The only other triumvirate that included a necromancer as their human servant did not exhibit this level of... power."

"You hesitated, what were you going to say before power?"

"You know me too well, ma petite."

"Just answer the question."

"I was going to say, unpredictableness."

I wasn't sure that had really been what he'd meant to say, but I let it go. He'd answered the question the only way he was willing to. I knew by now when he'd given me everything he was going to. I'd learned to let it go after that, because anything else was just frustrating, and rarely gained me anything. "Fine, I believe that you don't know what the hell we're doing either. Is there anyone that would have a clue about what might be happening to us?"

"I will think upon that, ma petite. There is no one that I know that has ever managed to form two triumvirates that intersect as ours seem to. But there may be those who could provide some more general information on triumvirates, or necromancy, or... in truth, ma petite, I don't even know where to begin to ask an intelligent question. I cannot go to most master vampires in the world with these questions. They would see it as weakness. I will think upon it and see if there is anyone we can ask." He sounded perplexed, which I didn't hear often in his voice.

"Alright, I'll call Marianne and see if she or her coven have any insights. I might even ask Tammy when she and Larry get back from their honeymoon. She is a witch, and her branch of the church has been dealing with supernatural talents for centuries. Who knows, maybe they have archives?"

"That is a good thought," he said, "Damian seems most distressed."

"You could say that."

"I do not know for certain, but if he were to go to his coffin and you not be near, I think he might sleep as he is meant to during the day."

"What if he just goes buggers again?"

"Put someone downstairs to watch him. Someone, not you or Nathaniel or Richard, someone that is not part of either triumvirate. If your watcher does not see him sleep, then they can yell for you to come and comfort him."

It wasn't a bad idea as ideas went, and I had nothing better. Also, I didn't want to spend the day baby-sitting Damian, or anybody for that matter. "I'll talk it over with him and see if he wants to try it."

"If he refuses, then you will, what, hold his hand all day?" There was the tiniest edge of jealousy. I hadn't expected that.

I spoke before I had time to think, which I'd tried to stop doing. "You're not mad at Damian about the sex are you? It wasn't planned."

"Now, ma petite, not the sex, though I do not lightly share you, no matter how reasonable I seem. No, it is that the three of you seem to have shared all four marks, though until I see you all together in the flesh, I will not be able to check that for certain. But if you share four marks and suddenly Damian is able to walk about in the sunlight, I must ask myself, if I had completed our triumvirate, would I now be a daywalker?"

Oh. "I guess I can see that, but you've been as reluctant as I am to finish the fourth mark. You said you were no longer certain who would be master and who would be slave because of my necromancy."

"And I am even less certain of it now, but to walk about in daylight as easily as moonlight might be worth the risk. If you have lost the ability to order Damian about, then that might be a telling thing."

"I'll try to order him around later and let you know."

"Thank you."

"But there is also that immortality thing, not aging, neither Richard nor I were sure we wanted to give up being mortal."

"And if you have bound yourself to Damian with the fourth mark, might it already be a moot point, ma petite."

I stood there in my kitchen and was suddenly scared. "Shit," I whispered.

"Oui, if you have truly completed all the marks, then your mortality may be a thing of the past. If that were true, then taking the fourth mark with me would lose you nothing."

"And gain you the ability to walk in the day," I said, and my voice wasn't friendly when I said it, because I'd heard the tiniest bit of eagerness when he talked about walking in the daylight. I couldn't blame him, but Jean-Claude had been working on his power base for too long not to see the advantages of things. I couldn't blame him, but part of me wanted to. Part of me still wondered if I was more important to him for the power or love. Most of me knew that I would never know for certain, and truthfully, probably neither would Jean-Claude. Love was not the nice, neat, linear thing I'd wanted it to be. It was not just one thing, but many things. I could admit that one of the reasons I loved him was that he was hard to kill. His chances of up and dying on me were smaller than if he'd been human. A large part of me really liked that. I'd seen enough of what death could do, and at too young an age, not to appreciate it.

"Perhaps, or perhaps not, ma petite, this is more art than science, or so it would seem." His voice held a thread of anger in it.

"What are you pissy about? I'm not the one trying to pick a language you can't understand so I can hide things from you."

"And I am not the one, ma petite, that has fucked another vampire, a lesser vampire, one of my own underlings."

Put that way, it did sound like he had grounds to be pissed. "Am I supposed to apologize?"

"Non, but I do not have to like it. He has come to your body, and now he is free of the tyranny of the dark. One I could forgive, but not both. Both is a bitter thing, ma petite."

"I am sorry," I said, "I didn't plan any of this."

"Of that I am certain. I am even certain that Damian planned none of it. Only you, ma petite, could keep having such accidental sex."

Accidental sex. He made it sound like I fell down, and there just happened to be an erection in the way. I kept that observation to myself. See, I am getting smarter. Out loud I said, "Accidental sex. That's one way of putting it. Am I ever going to inherit a vampire power that doesn't have sex involved somewhere in it?"

"I would never say for certain with you, ma petite, your necromancy makes you too much the wild card, but it is doubtful. So far you have inherited my powers, or Belle's, or some version thereof. To my knowledge Belle's powers revolve around sex, as do mine."

"Great, can you at least give me a list, so I'll have some idea what to expect?"

"I could, if you truly desire one."

I sighed. "No, just tell me in person when we see you tonight."

"Tonight? I was hoping that you might come earlier."

"We can't transport Damian in full daylight, his body might be fine, but I don't think his sanity would be. Besides, I've got to work this afternoon."

"Always the work, no matter what else is happening around you."

"Look, Jean-Claude, you've never seen what happens around me when I've gone too long between zombie raisings. Let's just say that I don't want a line of roadkill trailing after me, or worse yet, some 'accidental' zombie come shambling into my room."

"Are you saying that unused, your power raises the dead even if you do not wish to?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd told you that."

"You have told me of raising the dead by accident when you were a child. I assumed that was merely from lack of training and discipline."

"No," I said, "it took me years to admit it, but no. If I don't raise the dead on purpose, then it happens accidentally, or I start getting followed around by ghosts, or the spirits of the newly dead. I hate that last one, they always want me to take messages to their nearest and dearest, and it's always stupid messages. I'm fine, I'm happy, don't worry about me. What kind of message is that to knock on someone's door with? I'm this complete stranger, but your dead son told me to hunt you down and say he's fine. Nothing else, nothing urgent, just, I'm fine, don't worry." I shook my head. It had been years since I'd thought about that. "I raise zombies, and the dead leave me alone."

"Do they? Do they really, ma petite?" There was an edge of humor, but it held darker things.

"You aren't dead, Jean-Claude. I've seen dead, and whatever you guys are when you're up and running, dead isn't it."

"There was a time when you did not believe that. I believe you once called me a handsome corpse."

"Look, I was young, and I didn't know any better."

"Are you certain at last, ma petite, that I am not just a 'cute dead guy'?" Again he was quoting me.

"Yeah, I'm certain."

He laughed then, that touchable, raise-goosebumps-all-over-your-body sound. "I am glad of that. Do you speak Italian, ma petite?"

"No, why?"

"Nothing," he said, "I will see you tonight then, ma petite, you and your new friends."

I started to say they weren't new friends, but he'd already hung up. I realized as I hung up, I should have lied about speaking Italian, but hell, as good as I'd gotten at lying, my first reaction was still to tell the truth. I guess you can't undo all your upbringing, no matter how hard you try.